


broken souls

by Jordan Levi (sparkling_water2), sparkling_water2



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur feels abandonded, Dutch actually has a plan, Dutch pretends to favor Micah, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt, It actually works though, M/M, Platonic Charthur, Protective Arthur, TB Free Arthur, Toxic Relationship, micah is a rat, period typical racism, protective Charles, red dead redemption 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22909942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkling_water2/pseuds/Jordan%20Levi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkling_water2/pseuds/sparkling_water2
Summary: Charles knew that there was some sort of darkness brewing inside of Arthur. He thought that maybe he needed some time alone, but that just drew Charles closer to Arthur. Too close for comfort. But there wasn't much to be done when it turns out that Dutch's new golden boy Micah Bell abuses Arthur at every turn under Dutch's nose. Charles, along with John, know that they need to do something before it gets any worse.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Charles Smith, Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan, Van Der Linde gang - Relationship
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	1. June 12th, 1899

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first chapter. Let's see how this goes...

_The snow crunched_ beneath Arthur’s boots as he made his way back towards Valentine. In one hand he held a lantern to help him see through the darkness; in the other, the reins of a gorgeous white mare he fought tooth and nail to break in. Her temperament didn't make taming any better. The Arabian was so skittish that Arthur accidentally sent it bolting when he first tried to approach it.

He reckoned he’d been here for a couple of days, if not more, when his stomach grumbled. Arthur planned to keep going, but his legs started burning with every step he took, making him wince. He was quite a ways from his horse, he realized, as the Turkoman didn't respond to his whistles.

Admitting defeat, he stopped to put the lantern on his gun belt before taking a bread roll out of his satchel, sinking his teeth into it. The bread was already hard, the dough bland and chewy, but it was still food. The horse nickered as they trudged on, and he glanced at her. He could tell she was hungry judging by the thin frame, which made his stomach turn.

“It’s alright, girl,” Arthur cooed, reaching over to pat the animal, running his fingers through her mane. The mare closed her eyes, shaking her head ever so slightly in response as if to say ‘ _No, it ain’t okay, you fool.’_ Arthur sighed, turning his attention back toward the drawn out trail. He whistled again, even though he knew they were still far. All he was doing was wasting energy.

It was common for Arthur to end up far from his horse, whether he was on the run from the law or hunting deep into forests or swamps. But _God,_ he hated the Grizzlies. Nothing but cold, ice, and death. He mounted the Arabian, gripping the reins in his freezing hands. He beckoned the horse forward with a soft “Giddyup,” feeling them begin to move through the clumps of snow, down the mountain, and through the trees.

He was thankful his coat was warm enough, even though the wind stung his cheeks and nose, dusting them a rosy pink. The clopping of hooves put Arthur at ease, and he soon let one arm slack and rest at his side, his eyes trailing the barren land, his mind drifting with the wind.

He heard Hosea in his ear, see him asking why he’d even go up to the Grizzlies. A scowl was poorly hidden on his face, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “ _You could freeze to death up there in that hell.”_

 _“You worry too much, Hosea,”_ Arthur replied with a laugh, much to the man’s disapproval as his eyes burrowed into the brunette’s soul. _“Nothing’s gonna happen.”_

_“I have reason to.”_

Pulling himself out of the thought, he slowed at the sight of Charles, who waved upon seeing him. Arthur’s heart leapt as he resisted grinning, silently cursing himself. 

“Whatchu doin’ here?”

The other man shrugged, and Arthur could’ve sworn he saw a smile tugging at his lips. 

“That’s a nice horse,” Charles muttered, scanning the mare before meeting Arthur’s eyes. The contact made Arthur shiver, made him avert his own gaze. Made words block his throat. Not in a good way, though. It made him think of Micah, how he sweet talked the gunslinger before insulting and striking him into reluctant submission. ‘ _Think, Morgan.’_

A dry chuckle eventually passed his lips. “Yeah, she’s a… she's a feisty one. Found ‘er by Lake Isabella.” He shifted his weight on the mount and paused before getting off, hitching her on a nearby trunk. 

Charles hummed, seemingly oblivious to Arthur’s hesitation. He walked over to her and ran his fingers along her neck, her ears flattening a little in satisfaction. Arthur bit his tongue and watched, seeing the rising sun frame the two in golden light, yet missed him, casting him in shadow. 

It was poetic, really. Arthur wasn't seen as anything but a lowlife killer. A robber. He wasn't good, he wasn't a saint. He wasn’t the man he thought he would be. Even then, he tried to be good, he really _tried._ He damn near broke his back helping the gang, hunting and bringing the meat to Pearson for stew and pelts for the camp, dumped all his money into the box and left almost nothing for himself. He upgraded the camp and made them so much happier, and what did he get for his efforts? Dutch constantly in his ear, telling him that they needed more money, that they needed one more big score, that he needed to have some _goddamn faith._

“Have you thought of a name?” Charles turned his head to Arthur, his long hair flowing along his shoulders. The gunslinger took note of the darkness in his eyes, his already pink cheeks heating up. His mind was festering with broken, dark thoughts as his eyes dropped to the ground. Next to John, Charles was the one good person to ever be in his life, and he could see the inner turmoil and pain that brewed, caught the moment his guard slipped and emotions protruded from his stony expression. Arthur promised himself that he would protect Charles with everything he had. 

How can you protect a man from himself?

“Arthur.”

Arthur didn't hear Charles. He simply stared, as if caught in a trance. He wished he could keep the man safe, not that he needed it. Charles was a hell of a gun, showing that he didn't need protecting. Yet Arthur wanted to ask what was wrong. He never got to it, since everyone was pulling him in every which way. _Everyone_ wanted to take him to rob a coach or train or house. _Everyone_ wanted to ride with him, and he just wanted to ride with Charles. _His friend._

Fortunately–or not?–Charles’ voice shattered any thoughts and wishes built up in his mind. “You okay?”

“Huh?” Arthur blinked tears away–how did _that_ happen?– and ran his hands down his face at the confusion on the darker man’s features. Arthur didn't dare look at Charles, a choked laugh shaking his shoulders.

“I’m fine. I mean, not really, I-”

“No need to try and explain, Arthur.” 

The biting tone in the man’s voice made Arthur flinch. What had he done wrong? Charles was fine a moment ago…

Just like that, silence fell over the two. Moments turned to minutes, minutes to hours, it seemed, before Arthur gathered the courage to face Charles, who was tending to the Arabian, murmuring words of comfort as he detangled the mane. One phrase in particular stuck with Arthur.

“There you go, princess.” 

Arthur stepped toward Sundancer as Charles spoke, forcing a smile at the nickname.

“So she’s royalty now?” Arthur jested half-heartedly, and the other man glanced at him before shrugging. Despite only being with the gang for a few months, Charles was a natural with horses. More than Arthur, at least. It made him… a bit jealous. He knew he didn't have reason to, but he did.

The onset of a blizzard was becoming likely as the speed of the winds picked up, and Arthur spotted Charles shielding his eyes, moving to unhitch his own mount.

“We should go. And no, don’t leave her”– he motioned to Princess, who was now skittish, though they didn’t seem to notice–”to me. I already have Taima.”

Arthur hesitated before taking his saddle off Sundancer, trudging over to the Arabian and put it on her. Princess snorted and stomped her hooves, neighing in frustration, causing him to take a few steps back in surprise.

“Whoa, easy there! What’s wrong, girl?”

Arthur tried to get closer, but the mare didn't let him, turning slightly as if to flee. Her ears were flat against her head, and the gunslinger desperately searched the area behind him to see if someone was trying to bushwhack them, but it was difficult to see through the growing blizzard. The wind was screaming, so it was too loud to hear anyone coming. He hoped–no, _prayed_ –that Charles was searching the other way.

“Do you see anything?” Arthur shouted.

Silence. Arthur’s heart leapt into his throat, panic gripping him. A million possibilities rushed through his mind as he scanned the area. His ears, as good as they were, didn't catch the faint clicking of a revolver, but rather the strained voice of Charles. 

“Arthur _,”_ he wheezed. Arthur immediately whipped around, his eyes seeing an O’Driscoll digging the barrel of a revolver into Charles’ temple, an arm locked tightly around his throat.

Arthur attempted to rush toward his friend, his hand itching toward his trusty cattleman. A simple bullet to the head was all that was needed, and he could tell the O’Driscoll was a poor shot by the improper hold on the revolver.

“Don’t take another step!” the man barked. “Or I’ll blow his brains out!”

“Colm needs some better shootists. We both know that you ain't gonna shoot me.” Arthur watched the Irishman’s expression waver and took that as a sign to aim between his eyes, finger poised on the trigger, forcing his breath to steady. “However, you can certainly try.”

He scanned the area, finding flashes of emerald behind the trees nearby before firing at the captor, watching blood spray from his skull, slumping to the ground at the same time as Smith. The latter struggled to stay standing, and Arthur threw himself between him and the O’Driscolls, shielding Charles from the onslaught of bullets destined to come his way.

With each squeeze of the trigger, Arthur’s muscles tensed, his once steady hand quivering. He reloaded as quickly as he could, struggling to avoid being hit. His ears were ringing, aching from the constant gunfire. There were so many… there was no way he’d be able to fight all of them off.

_Just protect Charles._

He bit his lip once he heard the dreaded _click_ of his revolver and found he had no cartridges left. The only option left was to flee on the horses, but their terrified neighs filled the heavy air, making it impossible to mount without being bucked off.

“God dammit! Charles, we–”

Arthur, desperate to not let either of them die, found that Charles had gone. The indent of snow that held his frame was there, but _he wasn’t._

He opened his mouth to scream his name above the roaring blizzard and bullets, but a sharp smack against the back of his head with the butt of a rifle prevented words from coming out. The world tilted, the cold snow welcoming his helpless form as black surrounded him.


	2. June 14th, 1899. 6pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-Con, Period-Typical Racism.  
> 

_Screaming._

That was the first thing Charles jolted awake to. It wasn’t any normal scream, either. It was desperate, one that shouldn't be ignored. He was ready to jump up, his muscles tensing as the adrenaline scorched through him, his blood boiling. However, he was fighting against the rough rope binding his wrists and legs. The material cut into the delicate skin as he struggled. He tried to piece together how he got here.

The last thing he remembered before being knocked out was running. Running out of the Grizzlies as fast as he could, knowing that he was essentially leaving Arthur and their horses to die. It hurt him, it truly did, but there wasn't any way that he was going to die, or watch Arthur–his friend–die at the hands of O'Driscolls. Arthur deserved better than that.

Through the darkness came a golden glow of a lantern, and frantic shuffling toward him. He forced his eyes to focus on the guard, clad in distinct O'Driscoll green, who was shoving their catch forward toward Charles. He couldn't see the captive's face, but the person writhed against their captor.

“Get the hell off of me-!” they begged, their voice broken and low. Charles knew that voice anywhere, and it made his stomach churn. _Arthur._

Hearing the gunslinger broken and beaten and on the end of his rope made Charles bite his lip until the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Arthur only fought harder at the sight of Charles, but there was nothing either could do as the brunette was thrown on the ground. A pistol was trained on the back of Arthur's neck, certain to stop him from trying anything. Enraged eyes met calculated as the O'Driscoll finally saw Charles, sneering.

"You better not be looking away, _redskin._ " he spat, reveling in the man's discomfort. To Arthur, he hissed, "Time to teach you a lesson. Nothing gets past us."

Charles felt his chest grow heavy, and he did his best to get leverage, to find something to slice these ropes off, to help Arthur. He couldn't even keep his eyes on the O'Driscoll as there were sounds of pants being ripped off, and all Charles could register was the clear agony in Arthur's begs and pleads as the last shred of dignity was torn away from him in an instant.

"Please- Please, stop!" He choked back tears, trying to pry himself from the O'Driscoll's death grip.

The O'Driscoll laughed in response, and Charles strained to hear what he said to Arthur.

"Is that what you say to your _friend?_ The one that always rides with Van Der Linde?"

Wait.

_Micah?_

Charles breathing thickened with fear and unbridled rage. He knew there was something wrong with Arthur for a few weeks, always being pulled into Micah's tent, but he didn't think it was... 

That bastard seriously needed to be taught a lesson, but Micah was Dutch's new golden boy. He was everything Dutch never saw in Arthur: Blind faith and loyalty. Now, if Dutch knew what Micah was doing to his _son_ , he would just turn a blind eye.

Dutch only cared about Arthur when it came to bring food and supplies and money, but not when it came to a gang member assaulting his son. If Arthur fought back in any way, which the bruises and cuts on his body proved that he had before, no one would listen to him. They'd listen to Micah.

The minutes went on for way too long, the air filled with desperate pleas and bargains. Of course, they fell on deaf ears. Charles was too shocked to make any more moves, his muscles loosening. He was staring at the horrid scene in front of him, watching Arthur's face contort. The rhythmic rocking against the ground and grunts only solidified the mens' helplessness.

And as soon as Charles had time to process what had unfolded, the O'Driscoll was gone, leaving Arthur half dressed and shaking and torn. Tears stained his blotchy face, and he didn't dare look at Charles as a heavy silence crashed down on them.

Charles struggled more against the rope, crying out as it dug further into his skin. He looked to Arthur, his heart shattering at the pain on the other's face.

"Arthur. Hey. Listen to me. I need you to cut me free."

He watched as the blue eyes, once proud and determined, were now empty and dark as they dragged themselves up to meet Charles' steady gaze. Charles blinked back tears, hoping that the gunslinger would actually listen. Unfortunately, the man's voice made Arthur collapse in on himself, holding back sobs.

"He- God, he-" Arthur started to break, his body sinking further into the cold ground. The fact that Charles was still talking to him after abandoning him... "Charles, he-"

Charles couldn't stand another second of it. Not because of the way Arthur was acting–he was totally justified–but he knew that if they stayed stuck here, they would die. They didn't have time for any of this.

"Morgan. I need you to cut these ropes. We have to get out of here. _Now."_

Charles didn't care if Arthur got more upset. He didn't care how he sounded. They could deal with it back at camp. 

Several moments of hesitation. Way too many. Charles saw Arthur struggling with his clothes, his hands inaccurate as they buckled his belt too loose. Soon, the ropes were off, and after sheathing his knife, Arthur clung to Charles like a child, sobbing into the darker man's shoulder. Charles froze, unwillingly returning the hug, the prospect of escaping fresh in his mind. _We don't have time!_

He pushed Arthur away roughly, somewhat regretting it as Arthur's expression gave way to insufferable agony that Charles couldn't even look at. He had to force Arthur out of the hideout, watching the poor man try and fail to keep his composure as they trekked through the camp, wary of the O'Driscolls that could cut them down in seconds. But they weren't going to die in this shithole.

By the time they got to some horses tethered at the edge of camp, Charles was completely holding Arthur up, the latter having lost the last of his strength a long time ago.

"Come on." Charles coaxed Arthur onto one of the mounts, supporting him as he swayed before steadying, wincing as he settled uncomfortably into the saddle. The man sighed, watching the gunslinger for a long moment before mounting the stallion beside Arthur, spurring his into a trot. He heard Arthur weakly push the horse in line behind Charles.

Arthur finally spoke up once they were far from the O'Driscoll camp, his voice trembling. "Charles..?"

Charles picked up on the sniffling and cracks in Arthur's voice, which made his heart slam harder in his chest. He couldn't bear to watch Arthur suffer. It had been unspoken for weeks, what Arthur and Micah did. And he was a fool to not see it earlier.

"What is it?" He saw Arthur flinch at the question, looking away and falling silent. The darker man ran a hand down his face, cursing himself. He shouldn't be too rough on Arthur, especially after what just happened minutes ago.

Fuck.

This was not the same man he knew weeks ago. This was not that man that he taught how to use a bow. This wasn't the man who used to visit his tent every day and sit with him at the fire early in the morning until late at night. This was not the same man who always came back to camp with two horses and meat to last them a month.

This was a broken man. A man weathered by weeks of abuse from a rat that told their leader what he wanted to hear. A man that would surely be killed if he stood up to his abuser and defiler.

And there was nothing that could be done. Dutch wasn't going to listen.

The only thing that Charles could think as the camp came into view was that Micah was going to pay for all of this.

He would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so sloppily done, but I promise it'll pick up by chapter 3!  
> For anyone wondering how the O'Driscolls know about Arthur specifically, it has something to do with the residential rat ;).


	3. June 14th, 1899. 11:32pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW; mentions of sexual assault, physical abuse, possessive behaviors.

_After what happened with the O'Driscolls,_ Arthur was told to go to his tent and try to get some rest. Charles had given Arthur some food and coffee in case he woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, told him that he and John would keep watch outside of Arthur's tent. Naturally, Arthur began to panic when Charles mentioned John, but Charles simply told him that John had no reason to know yet.

That night, he stared at the entrance to his tent, his whole body sore and aching. He still felt every second of what the O'Driscoll did, the pulsing ache traveling up his body, and he buried himself further into his soaked clothes. He felt so ashamed knowing that Charles had to watch him be raped. By an O'Driscoll who knew about what Micah did to the gunslinger, no less. But there was no comfort for him to find. There wasn't any comfort knowing that the O'Driscolls found out about him and Micah. The latter made it no secret, which he never understood.

Whenever Micah dragged Arthur along for a "hunting trip" and they passed an O'Driscoll camp, Micah made it known that _Arthur was his._ Riding Baylock way too close to Sundancer just so he could smother him with forced kisses while training his eyes on their life-long enemies _just so they know not to mess with them_. Whenever Arthur set up camp and tried to sleep, he woke up in the middle of the night either being fondled, groped, or just taken advantage of. Whenever Arthur tried to tell Micah that he needed to leave for his own sanity, Micah couldn't take that. He hit Arthur with anything he could find in that moment. His fists or knife were the most common, it seemed.

" _You're mine, Morgan,"_ he'd growl, forcing Arthur into an aggressive kiss. _"You've always been mine."_

Now, Arthur didn't know what to do. His thoughts were just festering now, leaving him quivering and soaked in sweat. He closed his eyes, dreading the moment that Mr. Bell would come into his tent and harass him. Arthur knew he couldn't say a word about what happened to him. He couldn't say anything that could tip Micah off. He didn't want to be assaulted a second time. He rolled over onto his back, biting his lip as he tried to settle down. He wasn't going to make it any better if he kept on counting the seconds. He was unaware of the chatter around camp, and he assumed that the majority of the gang members were either sleeping or going on watch.

He didn't know that the conversations surrounded him, and the conversations sparked rumors. Arthur had no idea those conversations would reach Micah within hours, and he burst into Arthur's tent, pinning him against his cot before he could react. Micah's hand locked around Arthur's throat, and he could see the beady, hostile gleam in the bottomless eyes he was forced to stare at most nights as of recent. Needless to say, it forced the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping.

"What the _fuck_ have you done, Morgan? What did you tell those _fucking degenerates_?" Micah demanded into Arthur's ear, sending chills up his spine. He tried to get up, his windpipe being crushed under the pressure. "Answer me, you sonuvabitch!"

Micah pressed his hand harder against Arthur's neck, and Arthur could feel the world beginning to slip. The other man seemed to notice this, as he let go of Arthur, allowing him at least a moment to breathe. He sat back, fighting off a grin as Arthur tried to not pass out. He loved watching his pet suffer...

"I... I told them _nothing._ " Arthur spat out, his breath rattling. He knew there was a new bruise forming, and he rubbed the spot gently.

"Then why are people _talking about us_ , then?"

Arthur shouldn't have spoken after that. He shouldn't have opened his damn mouth, no matter how much shit Micah put him through. But his mind was whirling, and he didn't realize what he said until the words had already left his mouth. "Maybe because you... made it no secret to the _O'Driscolls,_ the men Dutch has been fighting most of his life, that you pretty much _own me_! You-"

A hard slap cut him off before he could say more, heat rising to his cheek. Arthur tried to open his mouth, to get Micah to stop, but it only earned him another slap. It was one that rattled him, leaving him staring helplessly up at the outlaw. It fueled the pure fear that enclosed him, leaving him frozen. He wanted John or Charles to come and save him... but he wasn't a goddamn damsel in distress that needed saving constantly.

He just... needed to get the hell out of whatever it was that he and Micah had. He knew it wasn't healthy.

Micah cupped Arthur's chin in his hand and forced the other to face him. His voice was dangerously low and husky, as if he didn't just curse the man out mere seconds ago.

"If I hear that you told someone, don't expect me to be nice to you."

When Arthur didn't answer, Micah continued, "If you tell Dutch... well, I'll make sure your death ain't so pretty."

With that, Micah planted a soft kiss on Arthur's forehead– an action that made him want to vomit– before standing up and walking out of the tent. A chilling silence surrounded the camp as Arthur fought off tears. He was a fool. A goddamn fool that couldn't keep his mouth shut. He debated whether or not to come out of the tent, or run and tell Charles.

But, the taller man rushed into the tent before Arthur could make a move. The moment Charles saw Arthur, his expression of concern fell away into something truly indescribable. It made Arthur's heart drop.

"Charles... please... don't..." he mumbled, staring at the ground as his shocked body began to shut down.

Charles shook his head, taking pity on how helpless Arthur was. He shrunk in his cot as the other man's eyes scanned him carefully before exiting the tent. A million thoughts raced in his mind. _He's going to tell Dutch. He's gonna tell John. He's gonna let everyone in camp know, and Micah will string me up for sure._

"Hey, Micah, you and me need to have a good, long talk..." Charles' voice sounded near Arthur's tent, which forced him to his feet. The brunette barely reached the entrance of his tent before he heard a loud _thud_. He peeked through the entrance and saw Charles throw Micah to the ground with ease, the latter grunting upon impact. Charles raised a fist to Micah, his actions controlled entirely by rage.

"You leave Arthur the hell alone, you hear?"

Micah chuckled, unfazed by Charles' actions in the slightest. "Not a chance."

That caused Charles to snap.

Fist against flesh, along with Micah's pathetic cries of pain, was the only sound that rang through the camp for several minutes, and Arthur watched blood stain the grass and Charles' skin and clothes. The rest of the gang watched in horror, but none looked away. Arthur felt a small grin cross his face. None of them wanted it to end. Not even Strauss. Not even Hosea. _They all knew Micah was a rat._

However, the glorious moment was short-lived as Dutch caught wind of the commotion and rushed out of his tent, immediately going to protect his _favorite boy._

 _"Charles!_ Get off of him!" Dutch pushed Charles off of Micah, immediately pulling the latter to his feet, muttering to him to go wash himself off and get to his tent. Arthur heard Charles' labored breathing, and he slowly left his tent in the way he would if he approached a wild animal. The other camp members continued to watch the scene unfold, snapping back into reality as Dutch barked, "Everyone get back to their tents! _Now_!"

Arthur huffed, stepping toward Charles as he got to his feet. He noticed Charles hesitate before speaking, "Dutch, I–"

The leader glared at Charles, swiftly cutting him off. It made Arthur flinch, seeing the same hatred that was in Micah's eyes. It made him sick. Charles, however, simply stared right back, squaring his shoulders.

After a moment, Dutch waved him off, ignoring Arthur completely as he muttered coldly, "We will discuss this in the morning, Mr Smith," before walking off.

Arthur looked at Charles, wanting to thank him, but the other simply shook his head and turned away before heading to his tent, leaving Arthur standing alone in the middle of camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh boy, this was fun to write. I had more fun writing this than the previous chapters. Chapter 4 is gonna slow down a little bit, but not too much.


	4. June 22nd, 1899. 8am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of abuse, period-typical racism.  
> (Featuring my favorite camp event from the game)

_The next few days were a blur._

Charles was ordered by Dutch to stay away from Micah for the rest of the week, which was difficult considering that Micah only flocked to Arthur's tent more and more. As the days went on with him remaining on watch, Micah left the tent with bloodier hands than the day before, and his voice carried out of Arthur's tent louder and louder. The insults and compliments alternated, which only made Charles angrier. He heard it everywhere.

He passed by the donation box, and the punches were all he could hear. " _You're gonna learn to respect me, cowpoke."_

He came back from being on a hunting trip for a day and a half, and the sound of the cot rocking back and forth haunted him. " _You should know not to mess with me."_

The dark man knew that there was no way Dutch was oblivious to the abuse. The way that Arthur stayed in his tent more and more, only leaving to put 20 bucks in the donation box before hurrying back, as if Micah was watching his every move.

When Charles finally got Sundancer and Princess back for Arthur during a hunting trip, the brunette sported more marks and bruises over his body that were instantly noticeable. He struggled more than usual to mount his beloved Turkoman (probably from Micah straight up raping him), beckoning the Arabian to follow behind. All he told Charles was that he was going to Valentine to stable both of them. He wasn't sure why, but Arthur came back hours later on foot, his posture slouched as he collapsed by the fire.

That day passed without a word from either one. Charles had to keep his distance, as much as he hated it.

Micah's threats rang in his ears for hours. The only thing that brought him any form of joy was the bruises that stained Micah's pale skin, showing no signs of healing anytime soon.

_Good._

Charles came back one morning from a particularly quiet watch, and as he passed Dutch's tent on his way to donate the money he scrounged up from selling pelts, he stopped at the sound of muffled arguing. He edged closer, catching the middle of the conversation.

"-telling you, the boy needs to stay the hell away! You don't see it, Dutch!"

Hosea. Charles froze, but forced his breath to steady. The camp was busy enough to where no one seemed to hear or notice him.

"I've seen enough, Hosea. Arthur is _fine._ You know him and Micah ain't... well..." Dutch sighed, and he could almost see his figure going to light a cigar.

 _Finish the damn sentence, Dutch._ Charles thought bitterly.

Hosea hesitated, and Charles moved closer when he spoke next, the voice quivers sent chills up his spine. "Arthur's hurting. Pretty bad, if you couldn't tell. He's _your son,_ and you just let Micah–"

" _I trust Micah._ He's the only one of the lot who is loyal."

"That's a damn lie! Arthur's been loyal for 20 _goddamn years,_ Dutch! Micah ain't half as loyal as him, and you know it!"

Without another word, the flap of the tent was pushed open, and Hosea stormed out. He didn't seem to notice Charles, who shook his head and forced himself to go back to what he was originally going to do.

Hosea knew about Micah, which wasn't a surprise. But why would he tell Dutch knowing that he wasn't going to do anything? Why tell Dutch if it was clear that Arthur wasn't his favored anymore?

He made his way to nowhere in particular, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He wanted to keep busy...

Micah spotted him from one of the tables, calling out, "Hey, redskin! Go fetch me something to eat."

Charles stopped dead in his tracks, glaring at the outlaw under the brim of his hat. He knew he should've stayed away, just ignored him and moved on, but he was too caught up on how smug the bastard looked, despite the bruises given to him days ago. "Excuse me?"

Micah took this as an invitation to get up and move toward the mixed man, pushing him hard enough to make him stumble. "I said _fetch me something to eat_."

Charles didn't hesitate as he snatched the front of Micah's shirt and threw him on the ground with as much force as he could muster. His chest heaved, the thick air surrounding Clemens Point not helping as he tried to catch his breath, as he watched Micah's face fall. "Eat that."

He walked away, hearing Micah's biting comment as he recovered, "You wanna watch that temper of yours, boy!"

The next comment wasn't directed at him, and he felt his throat tighten as soon as he heard it.

"What are you looking at, cowboy?"

"Nothing..." _God, Arthur. You gotta shut up at some point..._

"You'd better not be. Unless you want a repeat of last night."

Charles turned around, seeing Arthur cower under Micah's threatening gaze, mumbling a quick, desperate apology under his breath. Charles started back toward Micah when there was a rough hand on his shoulder pulling him back.

"Not now, Mr. Smith." It was John's voice. Charles saw the dark-haired man watching the two before shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Lemme guess, Dutch knows?"

"Yeah... Hosea told him." The words almost didn't come out, and John urged Charles to a nearby log to sit down on. He looked around, praying no one else was listening.

"And?" John folded his arms over his chest, sitting down next to Charles. When Charles didn't answer, he assumed John filled in the gaps. The heavy sigh told him everything. The pain, the frustration.

Arthur was John's brother. And they all felt helpless.

"So, what's gonna happen to... _them?_ "

Charles had no idea. Dutch wasn't gonna cut Micah loose, and he wasn't going to protect Arthur. Arthur couldn't leave, Micah would track him down regardless.

"It's just going to continue. There's nothing we can do." He was defeated. The situation wasn't going to get better, and Arthur would surely end up dead soon.

Before John could say anything, a flash of red passed by him, and he watched as Dutch approached Micah. He couldn't see Dutch's expression, but his posture seemed... calculated.

"Mr. Bell! You and I are going on a hunting trip! Should be a few days."

Micah's face morphed into one of pride. "Of course, boss." Before walking off with Dutch, he wrenched Arthur's sleeve, whispering something in his ear. Whatever it was seemed to mortify the outlaw, and he pulled away, rushing off to another part of camp.

John and Charles watched them go to their horses, Dutch announcing to the rest of camp to stay working while they were gone. Charles stood up, waiting until they left camp to go look for Arthur. Panic rose in his throat, but gave way to relief as he saw the gunslinger sitting by the fire, holding a cup of coffee. He watched the man take a small sip, and he slowly approached him. 

"Hey... Micah's gonna be gone for a few days... I was thinking you could sleep in my tent while he's gone."

Arthur stared into the fire for a long moment before speaking, his usual drawl absent. "He's gonna kill me once he gets back."

Charles couldn't dismiss that fact, but he was certain that it was just Micah in his head, the threats that he heard were just that. Threats.

But Arthur looked up at Charles, and his dim eyes told him everything that wasn't spoken. It was everything that they both feared.

Micah wouldn't lie about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has to be the longest chapter, and I'm so proud of it! If anyone has any suggestions to how the rest is going to play out, please let me know, as I'm at a standstill at this point in the story.


	5. June 25th, 1899. 6:19am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I can get at least 2 more chapters out after this :,).

_Arthur spent the next five days with Charles and John exclusively._ Most of the time was spent in The Heartlands and Cattail Pond, with John and Charles making Arthur their top priority. They wanted Arthur to at least try to get better while Micah was gone, and they seemed to treat the hours different. It was as if those days, those hours, those minutes, were precious. The two alternated between events in the day and evening.

He hunted with Charles during the day, the man easing him back into using a bow after weeks of being holed up in his tent. He fished with John at night, their boat filled with various species of fish before the sunset, all while Arthur contemplated throwing John over the little canoe they "borrowed." Then, the following day, they switched, all while making sure Arthur was at ease.

Those moments went on fine with pretty good luck, but it were the nights that worried them. He knew John and Charles stole glances at him, clearly concerned at how he'd make it through the night. It made his stomach drop.

He wished they didn't care... Micah surely didn't, so why would _they_? They had no business knowing in the first place. It was always between him and Micah. No one else.

Yet, the flashbacks haunted him every night. The slaps, the slices, the insults. He couldn't sleep more than five minutes without waking up in a cold sweat. Night after night, Charles often comforted him, John busy being on watch. He never understood why Marston always insisted on staying as far away from him. Maybe because Charles was a better man for the job. He wasn't sure.

Today wasn't much different than before. He fished with John in the morning this time, all while Charles went hunting and brought back a few rabbits. They all made jokes at John’s expense, who simply laughed it off.

This night was different. Charles and John were asleep, unaware of the whimpering and crying during the horrid nightmares that plagued him, He jolted awake screaming, _"Stay away from me!"_ He thrashed around wildly, beginning to hyperventilate as he tried to push Micah off of him, the pressure against him nauseating. He wasn't going out like this. _Get off get off get off get off–_

"Morgan! Goddammit, _calm down_!"

Arms wrapped tightly around him, the voice cutting through the panicky haze of his mind, shoving him back into the waking world. The human contact only made things worse. Arthur couldn't stop kicking and squirming, and a part of him _knew_ that he was acting like a child. Micah came for him. He was done for. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, feeling like it was going to burst any second. _He needed to get out of here._

"Shit– Arthur! It's me! It's John!" The voice sounded harsh, desperately trying to calm him down.

_John..._

Now Arthur just felt worse. _You fool. Thinking it was Micah. You damn idiot._

Every second that passed in silence allowed Arthur to start calming down, even though the memories were still fresh in his mind. When did he become so weak and useless? Was it when he decided to stray away from the gang's twisted ideals? Was it the debt-collecting? He only tried to be good, despite all of Dutch's talk. He tried to be a good person, treating every day as if it were his last. It caught the attention of Micah, the damn coward. 

He spent the next few minutes trying to catch his breath, John still embracing him in silence. It soothed him, strangely. The physical contact made him want to vomit.

"Okay, you a bit better now?" He finally asked, pulling away from a shell-shocked Arthur. They locked eyes for a moment before the brunette awkwardly sat up and turned away from John, staring at the patch of grass by his feet.

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine."

John raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You know you ain't. Charles and I won't let that rat anywhere near you. I know you don't always need protecting, but right now you do."

Arthur knew that was a lie. Dutch and Micah were still out on the hunting trip, but Micah always kept his promises. He was the only one that did, as sickening as it was to admit. He wouldn't be stopped by anyone at camp. He couldn't be convinced to change his mind. He was set in his ways. He knew what he wanted to do.

The brunette sniffled, hugging his knees to his chest. He hated being vulnerable, in front of Marston especially. He hated showing his emotions, since all that ever got him were countless bruises.

John hesitated, a heavy sigh passing his lips. " _Please_... let us help you."

Arthur didn't answer at first, but deep down, he knew that he needed the help. John, as stubborn as he was, meant well. "Fine... fine." He hoped it was convincing...

He lowered himself onto his bedroll, seeing John watch him for a moment out of the corner of his eye. Worry leaked through his features before vanishing, and Arthur eventually fell into a dreamless sleep, the thoughts of Micah being pushed into the back of his mind.

The smell of cooking meat the following morning forced him awake, and he squinted at the bright light of the rising sun. He could faintly hear Charles and John talking, but he was too exhausted to pay attention to what was being said. He heard John mention Sundancer, but other than that it was meaningless chatter to him.

He hoped the stallion was okay... he was safe from Micah's eventual torture. He wanted him, of course, but he couldn't risk it, in case Micah came back.

Shaking the thought away, he sat up, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight. Charles noticed the gunslinger stir, and knelt down next to him, a smile on his face at the sight.

"How are you holding up?"

Arthur shrugged, shifting his gaze up to watch Charles' expression. "Alright, I suppose. You and John haven't let up." He chuckled dryly, scratching the back of his neck.

Charles shook his head, his gaze falling to the space between them. "We have a right to." He paused, took a shaky breath, before placing a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Come on. We should be getting back to camp before they get there."

He helped Arthur to his feet, while John took to smothering the flames of camp and packing the bedrolls into Old Boy's saddlebag. There was the distant noise of clopping hooves, and something told Arthur that was Dutch and Micah, which only fueled his panic. But Charles didn't seem worried in the slightest as he helped the gunslinger onto the back of Taima, following behind John as they hurried back to camp.

"Don't worry about him, Arthur." John said, guiding Old Boy into camp. "He won't hurt you."

Another lie.

He dismounted Taima at the hitching posts, the hooves getting closer. He could hear Micah's voice down the path, causing his throat to tighten. _He's gonna kill me._

There was a small tug on Arthur's sleeve, and he felt John pull him toward his tent, Charles walking behind them, sawed off at the ready just in case. As Arthur looked around, he noticed the camp was empty, which set him on edge.

He just barely settled down into his cot before Micah's voice announced his return.

"Morgan! I'm back! Dutch had to go into Rhodes for a bit..."

Why didn't Dutch come back? They went on the hunting trip together...

Arthur felt pins and needles up and down his arms and legs, and he looked to John, then to Charles, both of who were shielding Arthur.

Micah seemed to know what the two were doing, as he stepped uncomfortably close. "Get the hell out of the way. Both of you. I need to talk to Arthur for a minute."

Arthur felt his hands beginning to shake, but he placed a hand where his cattleman was, standing up. Micah's fingers itched toward his own revolver, and Arthur made the decision to speak up. He wasn't gonna let Charles and John die for him. No way.

"If you need to say somethin', you can just tell me now, Micah."

That was a big mistake, as Micah's eyes trained immediately on Arthur. But the gunslinger didn't flinch.

"There you are..." He tried to push through the tent to get to Arthur, but John and Charles pointed their guns, forcing Micah back. The rat laughed coldly.

The next few moments happened in an instant.

Charles moved to protect Arthur as John tried to disarm Micah. Arthur watched in horror as the two struggled, and he gripped his cattleman, his mind racing. He could easily shoot Micah, but that could mean accidentally hitting John instead. Or... he could let Charles take the shot instead.

Any decision that could've been made was thrown out the window as Micah slammed his revolver against John's temple, causing him to crumple to the ground. The sight alone made Arthur want to collapse too, but he instead drew his cattleman, aiming it at Micah's head. Arthur noticed Charles step beside him, his breath jagged as Micah tried to recover, dual-wielding to point at the two outlaws.

"You think you're so clever," he sneered, eyes locked on Arthur, the barrel of his ebony revolver pointed at the outlaw's head. "If you kill me, you're going with, too."

Arthur bit his lip, fighting off a smile. "As long as you're dead, I could care less."

A warning glance from Charles made him reconsider his words for a moment. The brunette forced his hand to steady, pulling the cattleman's hammer back. He inhaled, poised his finger on the trigger, praying to whatever higher power that he made it out of this hell.

And pulled the trigger just as Micah did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.


End file.
